


On The Edge

by tempered_rose



Series: Pausenclown [6]
Category: Football RPF, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Feelings, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/pseuds/tempered_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Six! This one takes place after the third one, Nothing Left to Say Now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/gifts).



> Oh...yes I did. Part six! ~~possibly a seventh one as well, we'll see~~ It takes place after the third one, Nothing Left To Say, and moves the story along a little. Kind of. You'll see. Song that inspired this one was actually two by the same wonderful singer. It's [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxpLxb5jHO0) and also [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvGYYg40Ijw).
> 
> This one is dedicated to everyone that has enjoyed this series, but especially Leon. Without whom, I probably wouldn't have written all the stories that came after the first Pausenclown story this year. Blame him. I do. :D Please enjoy, let me know what you think if you have a moment, and thank you for reading if you don't have the time ♥ It means a lot, every single one of you.

Things had gotten better with Miroslav since that whole _incident_ in the few weeks and months after the World Cup. Thomas had been grateful to the season starting properly again because at least training and matches had been enough to distract him from the quicksand status of their relationship. It had healed, they were together again, but more than ever Thomas was acutely aware how fragile they were right now.

After the first qualifier matches, when Miro had returned to Rome, Thomas had wanted him to stay a very great deal. He still wanted time to repair things properly. He wanted to be close to his lover, wanted to bask in the comfortable company that always surrounded Miroslav whenever he was nearby.

More than anything, Thomas felt a surge of relief when the other man had gone. He felt guilty for it, but he couldn’t help it. Things had been little of anything else apart from awkwardness and the unpleasant reminder that less than a month prior they had been broken up and had been no longer together. Things weren’t as smooth as they had once been and Thomas felt so very sad to see that that was the case. He had tried to make things better so that it went smoothly, tried to not be annoying. He had even laid off on the sarcasm to appease Miroslav.

One incident stuck in his mind more than the others. It is a simple gesture, to make tea for someone. It’s not a problem, especially if you know how they take their tea, and even more especially if you’ve made them tea a million times before in the past. Thomas had tried to soothe any rough edges of hurt feelings that may have remained by making Miro a cup just the way he liked it. He presented the beverage with a hopeful look as Miro had been glancing at the morning paper—another routine that had happened for as long as Thomas could remember.

The expression had lasted long enough for Miro to take one look at him, another at the beverage, and then an apologetic look blossomed on his features. The joy and hope disappeared into the air like steam does when it cools.

“I’m so sorry, Thomas. I thought I had told you. I’m trying this new fitness routine. I had to cut my caffeine intake.” Miro had said, apology in every syllable.

Thomas shook his head and took the offending cup and saucer away before another word could be said on the subject. “Don’t worry about it.” He had said, pouring the still-hot liquid down the drain. He watched as the brown liquid disappeared and he felt as if that’s all that was going to happen between him and Miroslav again.

He was afraid, so afraid, that they would break up again. He couldn’t lose Miro again. Thomas had just gotten him back and he would fight for him, fight tooth and nail for the man. To defend his honor, to protect him, to show him that he loved him, Thomas would do it all. Miroslav needed to understand that.

They had gone their separate ways after a few lovely nights together. Lovely nights that had been filled with awkward motions, conversations that remained silent, and shy looks between the two. It was as if neither of them wanted to talk of anything of true substance for fear that another argument would start or someone’s feelings would be hurt. But what neither of them had realized until they were apart—Thomas at home and Miro thousands of feet in the air and travelling rapidly back to Italy—was that by not saying anything they had hurt one another that way.

Thomas, once he had realized this, sent a text message to Miroslav. He hadn’t known what to say for the longest time before he figured something, anything, would be better than nothing. Honesty would work here, he had decided. Honesty instead of the omission of lies they had both been participating in during the brief few days they had had together.

‘ _I hope you land safely. And I’m sorry we didn’t talk properly while you were here. I just enjoyed having you so close again. Love you, Opa._ ’

Thomas had sent the message then leaned back on his sofa as he relaxed his head on the back of the sofa. He closed his eyes and before he realized it, it had been a few hours since he sent the message. Eventually, his phone went, signaling with Miro’s personalized tone that he had received a message from him. He glanced at the screen and read what the older man had said.

‘Arrived intact and with all my belongings. Thank you for the concern.’

Thomas waited to see if Miro was going to send more. For a brief moment he let himself believe that Miroslav had meant to send more but maybe one of his fingers had slipped onto the enter key before he could. When nothing else came, Thomas resisted the feeling of tears in his eyes.

What did he have to do to get Miroslav to talk about what they so obviously weren’t talking about? Did he have to stand at the edge of a mountain and shout as loud as he possibly could that he and Miro needed to discuss what had happened? Did he have to straight up tell Miroslav that he wanted to discuss that no matter how wonderful kisses, touches, and fucking were, it didn’t take back those days where he felt like complete and utter shit? What did he have to do to get Miro to open up about it?

Sure, they had exchanged their apologies with their kisses. They had let the caresses make up for the silence and harsh words that had been said. Miroslav had held Thomas a little tighter than usual, Thomas had noticed that, while they had been together. But now, now he wanted to talk about it. He wanted to discuss it until the conversation was over. He wanted to make sure the subject was closed, discussed and ended, and then they could move on without awkwardness, without apprehension. Move on and be together, the way it was supposed to be. It wasn’t too difficult a request, surely?

Thomas remained on the sofa but his eyes stayed open. He was tired but he couldn’t do anything right now. Miro was going back to his family and if he had already landed in Rome, it would only be a matter of moments before he was back home. Right now he’d be in a taxi on the way back. There wasn’t any time to speak to him before he would get home. And Thomas wouldn’t dare call him at home after having already had him for a few days. No, Miroslav needed to be the family man for a day or two. When some time had passed, then Thomas would be able to call and they could talk again.

Sighing, Thomas shifted on the sofa so that he laid down and curled into himself with his phone resting on the cushion next to his head. He was alone right now.

Sure he could call someone, have a good night out, get pissed at the pub if he really wanted to. The lads would be more than willing to keep him company if he called anyone. He wasn’t entirely alone unless he really wanted to be. Something kept him from picking up the phone and speaking to someone, though.

Thomas closed his eyes and pretended everything was okay. He hoped it would be okay. He really wanted it to be. If only they could just get past the fighting, the arguments, and this stupid awkwardness. It hadn’t always been this way. It hadn’t used to be about fights, tip-toeing around one another. It hadn’t always been walking on eggshells and praying no one had any hurt feelings and the risk of things exploding into atoms if someone did have a cause to be upset. Thomas thought back to when he and Miroslav had first been together. He thought back to why he had fallen for Opa in the first place.

He’d always admired older men, always. Perhaps it was one of his kinks, or maybe he just enjoyed the wisdom that they could impart. He always had a crush on the older men, whether that was in films, in school, at football practice, wherever it was. Thomas appreciated them with a silent, watchful eye. Naturally, when he was finally given the golden ticket to the Bayern first team, Miro was the one he watched the most. How could he not?

The man was kind, graceful. He was polite, respectful and treated everyone the same, whether that was the president of the club to a homeless person on the street. Miroslav could make you feel like you were the most important person in the world if he was speaking to you. He could let you believe that for those few moments where his attention was focused solely on you, _you_ were the only thing in the world to him in that instant. It was a super power; Thomas had loved it instantly and delighted in being that person every single time he was given the gift of Miro’s attentions.

Miroslav didn’t actively pursue being someone’s mentor, but every so often, he would provide a tip or a suggestion that could be installed into a player’s game. Thomas, having always admired him for the player he was, of course put those suggestions to use. More often than not—and really, Thomas couldn’t think of a single time where he had been wrong—Miro’s advice had led to a goal or, at the very least, an assist for someone else. Miroslav would pat him on the back in congratulations and then he would return on his own contented self.

The Polish man wasn’t one to be discussed in the papers unless it was to be hailed and lauded for his football performances. The man abhorred gossip and stayed away from it. He hated attention to himself, which made him all the more interesting to Thomas. Thomas, who liked attention but not necessarily enough to seek it out, just wanted to make people laugh. If he could play football and make someone smile because of something he’d done, then he felt as if all things in the world were right.

As Thomas grew a little, he noticed more about Miroslav as he did so. With him being a fellow professional at Bayern and when Thomas had been given the diamond ticket into the National Team, Miroslav was everywhere. Thomas loved it. His hero, his idol, and he could see him all the time. It was thrilled and made him feel so wonderful. To know that his hero was so close by and not in the clouds where Thomas thought his God-like status would place him caused Thomas to be giddy with happiness. He was truly like a four-year old in a candy store.

The transition from hero worship to friendship had begun there, in the Bayern system. Miro had taken him under his wing since he was a learning attacking midfielder. Thomas had soaked up his knowledge like a sponge does liquid. Miro always found him refreshing and eager to impress and please. They would do small drills after training where Miro would try and get him to learn a new skill. Thomas picked up many. He couldn’t do the backflips, Miro had told him with a laugh one afternoon, because that was _his_ trait and if Thomas learned how to do those then people would get the two of them confused for one another. There was no such thing as higher praise than that.

Thomas opened his eyes when his phone beeped with Miro’s alert tone. He quickly snatched his phone and opened the message at once.

‘I love you, also. I will watch the match if I can. Happy early birthday.’

Thomas smiled slightly, but it wasn’t a full-watt one. He couldn’t smile like that unless Miro was actually around. At least he’d remembered his birthday. Of course he had, Miro didn’t forget those things, unless he was extremely stressed out or busy. All the years they had known each other, Miroslav had never once forgotten his birthday.

‘Thank you, Miro. Call me sometime when you aren’t busy.’ Thomas replied back after purposefully waiting a few minutes. He didn’t want it to look like he hadn’t done anything except wait by the phone for a scrap of attention. He technically hadn’t, but at the same time, he didn’t want it to look like he had.

Absently, Thomas’ fingers went to the place by his eye that had left a slight mark from the Ghana match. At least he had his battle wounds after that game to remember it by, in case he ever forgot the World Cup winner’s medal in his collection.

He could remember how careful Miroslav had been with him after that game and his medical treatment. Due to the injury and being jarred from it, he couldn’t remember too much about the field. He didn’t want to have false memories instilled in his mind’s eye from having watched it on the replays, he had never seen the injury on film and he didn’t care to. He had remembered laying on the grass and Miro standing over him, lightly touching his head and inspecting it. He could remember Miro’s extremely calm voice telling him not to move and wait for the medical team to come over. Thomas thought he’d asked what the final score was, but he couldn’t recall. Of course, he hadn’t listened to Miroslav either and had sat up after a few moments. Miro hadn’t reprimanded him, but had instead helped guide him to sit and he re-evaluated his head after Thomas was sitting on the pitch instead of laying down on it.

Then the doctors had come and Miroslav had watched as he had been led off the pitch (that’s what Miro had told him later). It had been a long while before Miro had seen him after that. He’d been stitched up and in Bastian’s room resting while Basti and Lukas fussed over him. They were polite about it, but they weren’t who he wanted. He hadn’t wanted anyone else apart from Miro. He just wanted to be held by the other man, held and loved. He had one hell of a headache. Eventually, he wasn’t sure how until he’d been told later, Miroslav had come to him because apparently he hadn’t shut up about asking for him. Bastian had finally caved and sent a text to Miroslav and the man had come.

Thomas had been so happy to see him. He had wanted to crawl into the other man’s embrace and just stay there until he had healed, until they had won the World Cup, until they were both old and gray, and stay there longer still until forever came and passed them by. He wanted forever with his hero, wanted it, craved it. He hadn’t expected it; Miro hadn’t given him any promises about that. “You know how it is” he would say whenever Thomas thought about a future together out loud, the few times he had ever breathed about such a subject in Miroslav’s presence.

Was it so bad to want a future together with the man you loved? Was it so wrong?

Thomas didn’t want to be one of those people that couldn’t escape from the past. He wanted to move on, move along with Miroslav and forget the turmoil that had rocked their world. He wanted to repair the damage and move forward. But could they? Could they truly move on and forget about it all? This weekend had proved there were still issues not being talked about. Yes they had apologized, but the honesty between them was being shrouded in a cloak of polite propriety that was strangling them.

He wanted to call Miroslav and have it out. There would probably be shouting on his part at least, crying on both of their parts, and then, only then could they get by it. They needed to talk about all of this. It couldn’t just lie like a cat on a porch in the sunlight, lethargic and unwilling to budge. It couldn’t continue like this.

And Thomas was so afraid, so very, very afraid, that it would. Who was to say that in another few months another argument wouldn’t start and lead to this all over again, just part two? It was driving him mad, his thoughts repeated over and over in his mind and there was no clear road. There wasn’t a path to guide him away from this swamp of a place.

Thomas couldn’t call him now; it would have to wait. He had no choice. Miroslav would have to wait.

Admitting defeat at last, at least temporarily, Thomas sighed and laid back down on the sofa. He didn’t bother turning a light on as the sun began to set, casting his living room into shadows. He didn’t move as the room grew steadily darker.

The sound of his house was quiet and round and his thoughts echoed in the silence of his mind. Was there anyone out there to listen? If he spoke aloud would anyone answer him back? No, there was no one there. And that was the problem.

There was no one there.


End file.
